


you are my asylum

by CaptainCapsicoul



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Altered Mental States, Anal Sex, Blood, Blow Jobs, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time, Graphic depictions of blood and semen, Hand Jobs, Lobotomy, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Non-Consentual Lobotomy, Rimming, Sad with a Happy Ending, Switching, bucky makes friends with a cat, graphic depictions of a broken arm, graphic depictions of surgery, graphic depictions of the winter soldier project, pre-serum!Steve, semen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCapsicoul/pseuds/CaptainCapsicoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes, a young warden of the state, is brought to an orphanage. As his mental condition deteriorates and he's moved from one institution to another, he creates this figure for himself: Steven Grant Rogers. Steve is something he can control and protect. It's his defense mechanism. It's his reason to live.</p>
<p>Until it's all torn away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are my asylum

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags! There's some potentially triggering material here, and I don't want to cause anyone any discomfort.  
> Inspired by this [post](http://www.tickld.com/x/what-harry-potter-is-actually-about-childhood-ruined?utm_source=tickld&utm_medium=facebook&utm_campaign=harryp&ts_pid=2&ts_pid=2).
> 
> First and foremost, this is for my dearest friend [feministintrospectionexception](http://feministintrospectionexception.tumblr.com). I bless you and curse you for putting this idea in my head. PS: JUSTYYYYYYY 
> 
> Secondly, to the fearless [buckmebxrnes](http://buckmebxrnes.tumblr.com) and [thebestpersonherelovesbucky](http://thebestpersonherelovesbucky.tumblr.com) for whipping this bad boy into shape. I hadn't written smut in a while...
> 
> Thirdly, Happy Birthday to our favorite Stevie! Here's an early birthday present. So, to Steve, who's turning 98 and to America, who's turning 239.
> 
> Fourthly, if you like it, please come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://ithewhimsy.tumblr.com)! My tumblr is mostly Stucky with some Steggy, a whole bunch of Marvel, and a smattering of random cute things.
> 
> Fifthly, enjoy! I haven't posted a completed, edited story in many, many years, and this fic has brought me so much joy and so many tears over the past couple of weeks. Sorry for being so lengthy. Thank you for taking the time to read this and without further ado...

_The city warden leads the young boy to the orphanage steps. He raps on the door, a heavy hand grasping the small boy’s shoulder. The boy only looks down, never making eye contact._

_“Yes, Warden?” asks a middle aged nun._

_“G’day Sister Catherine. I brought you a boy we found on the streets. You better watch out for this one. He’s volatile.”_

_Sister Catherine looks at the small boy whose eyes are fixed on the ground. She carefully takes his hand and his small bag of belongings from the warden. “I’m sure he’ll be fine in our care,” she says, taking him inside. “Thank you, sir.”_

_“You just be careful,” the warden replies, tipping his hat._

_The nun nods curtly. “Good day, sir.” The door closes with a loud thunk. The boy doesn’t look up; his eyes remain on the creaky floorboards of the orphanage. He doesn’t respond._

* * *

“Hey!” Bucky yells, running towards the big boys who are kicking a smaller boy. “Quit it!”

“What are you lookin’ at, punk?” one of the boys says. “Get lost.”

“No, stop it! You’re hurting him. Go pick on someone your own size.”

“What are you gonna do about it, squirt? You’re just as big as him.”

“Nuh uh. You should let him go. What’d he ever do to you?”

“C’mon, Pete,” says the other bully. “He’s not worth it.”

Casting a last glance at Bucky and the small boy, both Pete and his friend stalk off.

“I didn’t need yer help,” says the small boy, picking himself up off the ground. He winces as he bends to brush dirt off his knees.

“Yeah right. Those guys were three times your size. What were you thinking?” Bucky retorts.

“They were pickin’ on Sally. Wasn’t nice of ’em.”

“Doesn’t mean you gotta get involved,” Bucky argues. He doesn’t know why he feels so defensive.

“Wouldn’ta been right to let ‘em keep beatin’ on her. Gotta stand up for what I believe in.”

“Still think you’re dumb. My name is James Buchanan Barnes. It’s nice to meet you.”

The small boy gives Bucky a side-eye. “Steven Grant Rogers, since we’re bein’ so formal.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Call me Bucky. No one calls me James except my ma when she’s angry.”

“Then call me Steve.”

“How old are ya, Steve?” Bucky asks.

“I’ll be ten next week. How ‘bout you?”

“Eleven,” Bucky says, lifting his chin in pride. “I’ll make sure you don’t get in any more fights.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Steve says, his eyes lowering in annoyance.

“Fine, then I’ll fight with you,” Bucky replies, holding his hand out.

Steve smiles a little. “I think I can live with that.” He puts his hand out and the two boys shake on it.

“We’re gonna be fast friends, you and me, Stevie.”

“Don’t call me that,” Steve says, sounding annoyed, but there’s a smile playing at his lips.

* * *

_“Here’s your room, James,” Sister Catherine says, opening a nondescript door to an even more unremarkable room. “Towels and sheets are in the cupboard. Dinner is served promptly at six. Be on time and tidy. You’ll meet the rest of the boys then. Do you need anything else?”_

_James shakes his head, not making eye contact. He drops his bags and sits on the bed, not bothering to put sheets on the mattress._

_“I know it’s hard loosing your parents, James, but we’ll take good care of you here.” James moves his bag on the bed, not acknowledging that he had been spoken to. “See you at dinner.”_

_The door closes, but James doesn’t respond._

* * *

“Bucky! I saw Steve in an alley with that sourpuss Billy. He was getting pummeled real hard.”

“Thanks Tommy. Here’s a penny. I gotta go get Steve.”

Bucky has a deal with a couple of the younger boys in the neighborhood. They tell Bucky when Steve’s gone and got himself into trouble. In return, Bucky gives them a penny. It’s not much, but anything is better than nothing.

“For chrissakes Steve, I can’t let you outta my sight for five minutes?” Bucky asks as he pulls the thug off his friend. “And you, mister. Pick on someone your own size!” Bucky punches and kicks the older boy until he stumbles out of the alley, licking his wounds.

“I had ‘im on the ropes,” says Steve, running a hand through his hair.

“I know you did. C’mon, let’s go home. My ma’s makin’ kugel for dinner. It’s your favorite.” Steve smiles; Bucky knows how much Steve loves his Ma’s kugel. “I also gotta clean you up,” Bucky continues.

“Buck, I can take care of myself,” Steve retorts. Bucky’s used to that kind of response; he knows Steve hates being treated like a child.

“But I _like_ takin’ care of you. Makes me feel like I’m makin’ a difference in the world.”

“By patchin’ up my scrapes?” asks Steve. “Bleak world out there.”

“Shut up, punk.”

“Jerk.”

They walk home in a comfortable silence. Bucky really loves being around Steve. He likes having someone to protect. He likes knowing that someone relies on him, whether Steve will admit it or not. He likes knowing that he matters to someone.

“Boys, what have you gotten yourselves into this time?” Winifred Barnes asks as Steve and Bucky come in the house.

“Nuthin’ ma,” Bucky says, trying to make a beeline for the bathroom.

“Some older boys were pickin’ on one of the gimps, and it’s not right,” Steve admits.

“Don’t call them gimps, young man,” Winifred admonishes. “That’s not polite.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Won’t happen again,” Steve apologizes. Bucky knows he really won’t say it again. Steve refuses to even say ‘fairy’ or ‘invert’ after Winifred told him that they were mean names. Bucky’s ma is progressive for her time, always working to make the world a better place. Bucky sees where he gets it from.

“I know, Steve. Go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Yes’m,” Steve says, giving her a bright smile.

He follows Bucky towards the bathroom where he sits on the toilet seat while Bucky pulls out the first aid kit. There’s a formula to how Bucky takes care of Steve – they’ve done it enough times. Bucky makes sure that there’s no dirt in any of the cuts. One time, Bucky hadn’t been sure to do that and Steve got an infection in his knee, which then gave Steve pneumonia. He’d been bedridden for weeks. Ever since, Bucky is so careful to clean all the cuts, no matter how much it stings.

“You can hold my shoulder,” Bucky tells Steve for the hundredth time.

“No, I can do it,” Steve says while gritting his teeth. His cut is frothing a little from the hydrogen peroxide.

“You’re so brave, Stevie. I wish I could be that brave.”

“You are, Bucky. You run headlong into fights with boys twice your size.”

“Yeah, but only cause I’m savin’ your ass.”

“Hey, watch your language,” Steve says.

“You’re too good, Stevie.” Steve doesn’t respond, because Bucky is working on a particularly stubborn piece of gravel and it hurts Steve too much to talk.

“Boys?” Winifred calls. “Dinner’s ready! Come get it while it’s hot!”

“Be down in a minute. I’m almost done!” Bucky replies. He carefully cuts another strip of tape and attaches clean gauze to Steve’s knee. “Well get you some ice for your lip when we go down.”

The boys join Winifred and Bucky’s dad and sisters for dinner. Steve sits quietly, mouthing his own prayer, as their father says the blessings over bread. Bucky admires how Steve is so conscientious when Bucky’s family is saying their prayers. Steve is Catholic while Bucky is Jewish, but Steve is quiet and respectful, never making a big deal about how Bucky is different or how Steve prefers to say different prayers before he eats. Bucky doesn’t have long to dwell before there’s clattering of dishes and silverware as food gets plated and passed. He loves the way Steve’s eyes shine brightly when he eats warm, delicious food. Steve’s skinny, and Bucky doesn’t think he eats enough. Steve always disagrees, saying that he and his ma eat just enough, thank you very much.

“It’s delicious as always, Mrs. Barnes,” Steve says, taking a break from eating. Bucky also admires how Steve eats each bite as if it’s his last. He savors it and appreciates each moment.

“Thank you, Steve. How’s your art going?”

Steve’s art is something Bucky can’t even begin to explain. It’s so beautiful and heart wrenching that Bucky sometimes can’t even look at it. Steve will draw anything that sits still long enough for him to capture it on paper. Every year for Bucky’s birthday, Steve will draw him a beautiful picture. On the first birthday Bucky had since he and Steve became friends, Steve gave him a charcoal sketch of a lion mid-roar. “It reminded me of you,” Steve had said. “He’s all protective and loyal, but he’s got a big fuzzy mane, just like you.” Steve had stood on tiptoes to ruffle Bucky’s hair which had been a couple weeks overdue for a trim. Bucky had stared at the charcoal drawing every night before he went to bed admiring how majestic and realistic it looked.

Over the years, Bucky had accumulated pictures (birthday pictures and other random ones Steve drew) of people, animals, skylines, and moments. Bucky loves every picture he gets from Steve, but his favorite are the ones of people. Steve has a way of capturing the heart and soul of a person – their three dimensional being – and translating that into his picture. Bucky can see their lives and their stories through their eyes, and Bucky thinks it’s just swell.

Bucky’s absolute favorite picture he ever got from Steve is the one he got for his 14th birthday. Steve had managed to sketch him without Bucky noticing, which in and of itself was extremely impressive. When Steve first gave Bucky the picture, Bucky almost cried. The way Steve drew him made Bucky look older, stronger, more determined, and downright beautiful. “Is this really how you see me, Stevie?” Bucky had asked. “Sure is,” Steve had answered. “You’ve always been in my corner, and I’d never had that before. It’s like your job makin’ sure I’m happy and safe, and yeah, I can take care of myself, but it’s nice knowin’ that you’ll always be there for me. And I think you’re mighty beautiful,” Steve had added quickly. Bucky had just stood there, staring at his friend. All Bucky ever wanted to do is protect Steve and keep him out of harms way. He failed a lot (‘cause Steve couldn’t keep himself out of a fight if he tried), but Bucky always made sure to do right by Steve after the fact. Steve is Bucky’s to protect. And it hadn’t hurt that Steve thought Bucky was beautiful.

“It’s goin’ okay,” Steve says, putting down his fork. Bucky is brought back into present company. “My ma says I got a lotta talent, but,” he shrugs, “I dunno, I just do it ‘cause I like it.”

Winifred smiles. “That’s how it should be, Steve.”

* * *

_“Yes, hello James,” Sister Catherine greets. “Please close the door behind you.” He does. The hinges squeak and echo off the tall ceilings. “Thank you for coming. ”_

_“S’not like I got a choice,” James replies, staring straight ahead at the bookshelves behind the nun’s head._

_“I hear you haven’t been eating so well.”_

_James shrugs. “Haven’t been hungry.”_

_“It’s important you eat, James. I’d hate to make you.”_

_“Don’t think you could make me do anything I don’t wanna.”_

_“That’s no way to speak to your elders,” Sister Catherine reprimands, her voice growing harder._

_“Don’t care.”_

_The nun rises from her place behind her mahogany desk and steps around to be near James. She plucks a ruler off her desk, running it over her own hands. The room is dark, lit only by a wavering light bulb and the moonlight from outside. It’s a clear night. James doesn’t flinch as the ruler comes down in his knuckles. “You will behave better,” she declares, rapping James repeatedly. “You will not be as insubordinate as you are now.”_

_James looks at the bookshelf beyond. He does not respond._

* * *

“Check it out, Stevie! It’s got a kitchen and everything!” Bucky says excitedly. They’re moving into their new apartment. Together. Bucky could not be more excited.

“I know, Buck, that’s why we picked it.”

They unpack their meager belongings, making the dingy two room apartment theirs. They found a small couch in the dumpster, but it doesn’t smell too bad and the cushions are only a little lumpy. There are bed frames already in the bedroom, and Bucky takes his mattress from home. Steve does the same thing. Both boys are so excited to start fresh.

It’s sunny and bright when Bucky feels Steve shaking him. It’s their first morning living together. “Bucky, c’mon, you gotta get up or you’ll be late,” Steve says.

“Let me sleep, Steve.”

“I made breakfast!”

“Coffee?” Bucky murmurs.

“Just the way you like it. You gotta be down at the docks soon. Get up, ya big lug.”

Bucky falls out of bed and stumbles to the kitchen. His eyes aren’t even all the way open when he grabs the coffee mug. After the quick breakfast, Bucky goes to work and Steve sets out to make the apartment more like home.

They continue on for months, through the summer and fall and into the colder, wintery months. They have enough money to buy second hand coats and extra blankets, but they still can’t afford consistent heat in their apartment. There are some nights when even the extra blankets aren’t enough to keep Steve warm. Those nights are Bucky’s favorite. He gets to push his bed up to Steve’s, combine their blankets into a huge pile, and cuddle up real close. He holds Steve tight to his chest, transferring his body heat to Steve’s small frame. He quickly learns that he sleeps best when he can hear the small wheezing and whistling of Steve’s breathing. While it’s not the sound of a healthy person, at least it means that Steve is breathing and alive. That’s all Bucky wants for him. To be healthy and alive.

One night in particular comes to Bucky’s mind. Steve had just gotten over a bad bout of croup and his chest rattled more than usual. It had been a rough few weeks, the croup exacerbating Steve’s asthma, but Bucky had made sure Steve took it easy and worked him through each episode. Bucky pulled Steve into his arms, tucking his head between Steve’s shoulder and neck.

“Thanks, Bucky,” Steve had said. “I know ‘m not real healthy, but I really appreciate you bein’ around and helpin’ out. Means a lot to me, ‘specially since my ma passed.”

“Of course, dummy,” Bucky had responded, pulling Steve tighter to his chest. “I’ll always be here for you. ‘Til the end of the line.”

Steve’s breaths had evened out and Bucky knew he was asleep. Maybe Steve’d make it through the night without having a coughing fit. While he lay with Steve, slowly stroking his back, he feels something tugging at his heart. Steve is his everything. Sure, he has a family and other friends, but his life is consumed with picking Steve out of fights, patching him up, and making sure the kid doesn’t die. He needs Steve in his life in a way that he never knew he could need someone. Steve keeps him grounded. Steve keeps him sane. The affection he feels for Steve is nothing he ever knew. Lying there, stroking Steve’s back, Bucky realized that Steve had wormed his way into Bucky’s heart. He was overcome with the desire to lower his head and cover Steve’s neck and shoulder with thousands of kisses. It hit Bucky like a ton of bricks, but it suddenly all made sense.

That had been a month ago. Since then, life together is smooth and easy, considering Steve’s fragile health. It’s not until nearly Christmas when Bucky has to deal with a sicker than usual Steve.

It begins suddenly one evening. Steve is fine and making dinner and an hour later, he’s covered in a sheen of sweat, hardly able to stay conscious.

“Stevie,” Bucky pleads. “Stevie, you gotta stay with me, ya hear?” Bucky puts his head to Steve’s chest to listen to his lungs. He had noticed doctors doing that whenever Steve got sick enough to warrant spending the money. Bucky hears wetness.

“Okay, I’m gonna sit you up a little, so it’s easier to breathe.” Bucky’s not sure Steve can even hear him. He grabs the pillows off of his bed and adds them to the pile Steve has. He also takes an extra blanket and shoves it behind Steve’s back. Bucky carefully lifts Steve and pushes him up the bed so it’s sitting up a bit.

Steve moans and lolls his head to the side. Bucky takes a cool towel and dabs at Steve’s face, whispering small apologies when Steve tries to move out of the way of the cold washcloth.

“I’m sorry Stevie, I just want to make you feel better.”

“’M fine, Buck,” Steve slurs, the words coming out thickly.

“You’re not. But it’s okay, I’m here.”

“’M cold,” Steve mutters, trying to shimmy under more covers.

“No Stevie, you know how it goes. Until your fever breaks, you can’t be under lots of covers, else you’ll over heat.”

“But ‘m cold.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bucky says over and over, continuing to dab at Steve, hoping to bring down his fever.

It’s not until the coughing starts that Bucky is terrified. He’s heard Steve wheeze and cough like there’s no tomorrow, but something about this time is different. The cough is deeper and wetter and seems to shake Steve to the bone. At some point during the night, small spatters of blood join the mucus.

“I’m going to get a doctor,” Bucky says, getting up from his post at Steve’s bedside. His legs protest at the first movement in hours, but Bucky works through the pain. He knows Steve needs him more.

“No, don’t leave,” Steve said weakly.

“I gotta, Stevie. You need real medicine. I’ll be back lickety split.” He doesn’t say it, but Bucky also needs to run because he just needs to get out for a minute. He’s done this hundreds of times with Steve, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Each time, Bucky feels like part of his heart is being ripped from his body. He can just barely keep it together, and while he feels terrible and selfish, sometimes he just needs a breather – a minute to collect himself so he can be strong for his Stevie.

Steve turns his head to the side and falls back into a sleep. Bucky grabs his coat and shoves his feet into his boots (they might be on the wrong feet, but he couldn’t care less). He runs next door and asks the neighbor to make sure Steve doesn’t die while he runs to the pharmacy. They have a doctor on call for house visits.

It doesn’t take Bucky longer than twenty minutes to make it back to the apartment with a doctor in tow, but it felt like hours. Each minute away from Steve was another minute taken from their time together. Bucky’s always terrified that he’s going to run out to get a doctor and come back to find Steve’s cold, limp body, unmoving, eyes open and terrified just screaming _Bucky, why weren’t you here? You should have been here._

Bucky watches nervously as the doctor pokes and prods at Steve. He takes temperatures, checks blood pressure, and listens to Steve’s chest. Bucky tries to regulate his breathing. He can’t let Steve see him nervous or upset. He needs to be strong.

“He’ll be okay,” the doctor says, standing up. “Here’s some medicine that he should take for ten days.”

“What’s he got, doc?” Bucky asks, almost afraid.

“Double pneumonia, but with his existing asthma and arrhythmia, it’s taking a large toll on his heart. You’ll probably want to refill any asthma medication he takes. Keep his temperature down. If it climbs higher than it is now, put him in a cold shower. If nothing changes in three days, come get me again.”

“Thank you doctor. I’ll get these filled immediately,” Bucky says, almost crying in relief. Some tightness leaves his chest, but he’s still anxious about the days to come. He shuts down his emotions, and focuses on the important thing: Steve’s going to be okay.

“It’ll be a rough few days,” the doctor continues. Bucky forces himself to pay attention. “But I think he’ll be just fine. You’re doing good for him.”

Bucky feels his chest puff out in pride. He likes it when other people recognize how much he’s doing for his Stevie. He’s proud that he can provide for Steve, even when he’s just barely holding it together himself. Steve needs him, and that’s all that matters.

It’s not until the doctor leaves and Bucky makes sure that Steve is stable and sleeping that Bucky locks himself in the bathroom and curls into a ball between the tub and the toilet. It’s cold and the tile is hard on his back, but he feels like his losing control and the uncomfortable position grounds him. He can’t lose Steve. He’s all Bucky has. Steve has been his world since they were just kids. Steve stands for everything that Bucky isn’t – he’s fiercely loyal and has the strongest moral compass Bucky’s ever seen. He’s always trying to do what’s right, even if it costs him. He’s brave and kind, and his laugh is like angels singing. Bucky must protect Steve at all costs.

“Bucky?” Steve calls weakly from the next room. Bucky shoots out of the bathroom so fast, he almost runs into the door.

“Yeah, Stevie?” Bucky says, dropping to Steve’s bedside. “I’m here.”

“Am I gonna die?” Steve asks, his eyes glassy.

“No, Steve,” Bucky says, brushing a hand over Steve’s sweaty forehead. “I’m not gonna letcha. You’re stuck with me, pal. ‘Til the end of the line, remember? I’ll always be here for ya. Never forget it.”

“I think I’m dyin’. I think this is what it feels like to die.”

Bucky feels a couple tears run down his cheeks. “No, no, Stevie, you’re not dyin’. The doctor was here. He said that you’re gonna be just fine. I’m not lettin’ you go. Never, Stevie.”

“I’m sorry, Buck. I’m sorry ‘m not healthier.” Steve coughs violently, his shoulders shaking and his face turning red.

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says, rubbing a soothing hand over Steve’s back. “Don’t ever be sorry. I’m here to protect you. Remember? I said it when we first met.”

“Don’t need you t’take care of me,” Steve says, trying to snuggle under the covers.

“That’s just the fever talkin’. I don’t care what you think, you can’t get ridda me.”

Steve’s eyes close, his voice trailing off with each word. “Thank you Buck. ‘M gonna sleep now.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up.” It’s not until he’s sure Steve’s asleep when he adds quietly, “I love you.”

* * *

_James’ room looks just as it did when he moved in 7 years ago. Over time, most boys dot their rooms with personal touches – a shiny rock from the beach outing, a popsicle stick from the beginning of summer, a jack they won in a game – but not in James’ room. The only indication that anyone inhabited Room 107 is the bed, which is immaculately made every morning._

_James sits on that immaculately made bed, staring at the wall when he hears voices. Not that he pays them any attention._

_“He’s getting worse, Sister Catherine,” a low voice says. “All he does is sit and stare straight in front of him.”_

_There’s a hum of agreement. “He talks about someone named Steve and how they should take him and not this ‘Stevie.’ Do you think we should take more significant measures, Sister Maggie?” asks Sister Catherine._

_Sister Maggie clicks her tongue. “It’s been years since he came to us. He hasn’t shown any signs of improvement.”_

_“Do you think it’s time?” asks Sister Catherine._

_“Yes.”_

_“Very well,” she says. “We’ll send him to St. Lawrence. Maybe they can fix him.” James hears footsteps as they walk away from his door. He lies down on his bed, on top of the covers, stiff as a board. Soon, he’s asleep._

* * *

“I’m going to enlist,” Steve declares. Everyone had set down their paints and paintbrushes to listen to the radio. It had been a long time coming, but America is at war.

Bucky’s blood runs cold. This is the moment he feared. “No, Steve. No you’re not.”

“Don’t tell me what to do Bucky. I’m going to enlist, and I’m going to give back to my country.”

They argue all the way home and for weeks following, there’s a tense atmosphere in their apartment. Bucky refuses to enlist – he wants to keep Steve safe, and how can he do that if he’s on the other side of the world? Steve tries a couple of times, forging his place of birth. This only spurs Bucky onwards. They fight more often than not. They both cry silently when they think the other can’t hear. They listen closely to the radio and they read the paper for any news on the warfront. It’s a tense time in America. Steve manages to find a steady job, since his health has been holding itself together and there are so many vacancies due to men who’ve shipped out. Other than the fact that their nation is at war, life continues marching on.

Until the day it stops.

Bucky had been dreading this day, and he knew it would come soon, but he hoped it would never come. He breaks the news over dinner.

“I got my letter today, Stevie,” he says, setting down his fork, looking at his plate. “I ship out for basic Monday morning.”

Steve stops eating. “That’s tomorrow, Bucky,” he says weakly.

“I know,” Bucky responds. They don’t say anything for the rest of the evening. They finish their dinner and clean the kitchen. They sit on their slightly lumpy couch and listen to the evening news. Steve sketches and Bucky smokes a Lucky. They pretend everything is normal. It’s so close to normal that maybe it is. Except it isn’t. Nothing is normal. Nothing is ever going to be the same.

It’s not until they’re both washed up and in their beds when they start to talk. They pushed the beds together, for warmth and because neither could imagine sleeping alone. Bucky pulls Steve into his arms, just like any other night. Bucky breathes in that remarkable _Steve_ scent and tries to make himself relax. He hasn’t said anything to Steve about the way the smaller boy makes Bucky’s heart pound and stomach twist in knots. He hasn’t said anything about how Steve’s smile makes Bucky smile bigger and brighter. He hasn’t said anything about how just thinking about not being there for Steve makes his stomach turn and his heart clench. No, Bucky hasn’t said anything to Steve.

“I don’t want to die, Steve,” Bucky whispers into Steve’s neck.

“You’re not goin’ to die, Buck,” Steve murmurs.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re a fighter. You’ve always been. You’re not gonna let a bullet or a bomb get you down.”

“Stevie, there’s somethin’ I need to tell you if I’m gonna die out there.”

“You’re not gonna _die_ , Buck,” Steve repeats.

“Shut up and listen to me, ya punk. ‘M tryin’ to say somethin’ important here,” Bucky says with a small smile. He’s glad for the little interruption. “You’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that? Before I met you, nothing made sense. I was just floatin’. You gave me something to live for.”

“Oh Bucky,” Steve starts.

“I’m not done. What ‘m tryna say is, I love you, Stevie.”

Steve falls still, hardly breathing. “Steve?” Bucky asks quietly. Steve slowly rolls over in Bucky’s arms, putting his face inches from Bucky’s.

“Before I met you Bucky, no one looked at me twice,” Steve says, putting his hands on Bucky’s cheeks. “‘M small and always gettin’ into fights. But you saw me. You helped me. You made me your friend, and ‘m so glad you said somethin’ cause I’m just to big a coward to tell you that I love you too. Have loved you since the first time you cleaned up my cuts.”

When he’s done talking, Bucky has tears leaking from his eyes. He closes them and dips his head, smiling through the tears. He starts laughing, pulling Steve closer to him.

“Steve, we’re the two biggest idiots in Brooklyn.”

Steve smiles. That’s the smile that Bucky thinks lights up the sun. Bucky takes Steve’s face in his hands and places a soft kiss on his lips, hardly using any pleasure. Steve wriggles closer, letting out the smallest whimper making Bucky’s cock jump.

“Steve…” Bucky breathes, grinding his hips closer. “…so good.”

Steve doesn’t answer but pushes closer to Bucky, threading his hands through Bucky’s hair. Bucky can feel the hard line of Steve’s cock flush against his hip. He can feel the swollen head through their thin pajama pants. He trails his hands from Steve’s cheeks to his neck and down his back. Every touch makes Steve shiver.

“More, Bucky, _please_ ,” Steve whimpers, pressing his lips insistently to Bucky’s. Bucky gently licks the seam of Steve’s mouth coaxing it open. Steve parts his lips with a sigh and allows Bucky’s tongue to dance with his own.

Bucky can’t keep his hands in one place. They travel from Steve’s hair to his shoulders to his back to the curve of his small ass before trailing back to the sandy blonde hair. He counts Steve’s ribs with his finger tips and rubs circles over his hipbones. He can’t believe he’s finally here. After years of yearning and loving from afar, Bucky finally gets to have Steve in this moment. He can take care of Steve in the way he’s always hoped for.

He feels Steve’s small hands pushing at the waistband of his pajama pants. He shifts his hips so Steve can push them down to his knees, leaving him only in his briefs. Bucky carefully takes off Steve’s shirt and pants, mouth never leaving Steve’s lips. They sigh and moan quietly, taking care to not make too much noise. Their bed creaks slightly, but to an outsider, no more than normal shifting-in-the-night sounds.

“I love you, Stevie,” Bucky breathes, finally breaking the kiss only to run his lips up and down Steve’s throat. “You’re so beautiful for me.”

Bucky feels Steve’s breath hitching as he flicks his tongue over Steve’s nipple. It’s pert and begging to be teased.

“More,” Steve begs, wiggling his hips.

“Patience,” Bucky replies, switching to give the other nipple the same attention. Steve shudders beneath him.

Bucky continues trailing his hands up and down Steve’s body, not touching the place where Bucky knows Steve wants it the most.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, Stevie,” Bucky says, hand hovering over Steve’s cock. “You’re gonna see stars.” Bucky returns to kissing Steve’s lips. Without warning, he takes Steve’s cock in his hand, stroking slowly from base to tip, flicking his wrist slightly at the head. Steve’s back arches off the bed, a small whine escaping from the back of his throat. Bucky puts his hand gently over his mouth. “Shh, Stevie, don’t want the neighbors to hear.”

Steve looks at Bucky with dark eyes, pleading from Bucky to give him more friction. Bucky decides in that moment that if there was one thing he has to do for the rest of his life, it would be stroking Steve’s cock, bringing the smaller boy as much pleasure as possible. Bucky loves the feel of Steve’s length in his hand, thin and long with a swollen head. Bucky feels hypnotized by the steady motions of his hand, each stroke bringing Steve closer to the edge. He loves the way shivers travel up and down Steve’s body. Bucky’s cock twitches whenever Steve lets out a small whimper.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers. “’M close, keep goin’ like that and I won’t last much longer.”

“Not yet, Stevie. Don’t come yet,” Bucky says, breaking the kiss to watch Steve’s tip disappear in his fist. “I’m takin’ care of you.” Bucky leans down and takes a pebbled nipple in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth and flicking it with his tongue. He tortures Steve with the sweetest pleasure for what feels like hours. He plays and seeks out the sounds that come from Steve’s beautiful lips, so red and swollen from all the kissing. Time passes strangely for Bucky, he feels like he’s been there for hours, but it’s not nearly enough time. Before he’s ready, Steve lets out a strangled moan, back arching from the bed.

“Oh god Buck…so good…need… _more_ …m’so close.”

“I’ve got you, Stevie,” Bucky says, tracing his tongue around the shell of Steve’s ear, his hot breath making Steve shiver. “You can come now.”  
As Bucky starts to feel the warmth of Steve’s come on his fist, he moves his mouth over Steve’s to swallow his moans. Steve’s body arches as his come spurts from his tip. Bucky strokes him through it, drawing out each bit of sensation he can.

“S-stop,” Steve whispers. “’S too much.” Bucky lets go of Steve’s cock with one last twist of his wrist before scooping up a discarded shirt and wiping Steve clean.

“I love you,” Bucky says. He’ll say it again and again until the world stops turning. He looks down at Steve’s face and can’t help but smile. “You’re so beautiful, Stevie.”

Steve breaks into a shy smile. “I love you too, Buck. ‘Til the end of the line.”

Bucky pulls Steve to him, their flushed bodies pressed against each other, sharing body heat.

“How’s your breathin’?” Bucky asks, palming Steve’s chest, feeling the flutter of his heart.

“’S okay,” Steve replies. “Never been better.” Bucky kisses Steve’s neck, already missing Steve even though he hasn’t left.

Steve wriggles out of Bucky’s grasp to turn to face him. “My turn,” Steve says, running his hands over Bucky’s body. Bucky stops Steve’s hands and pulls them to his lips.

“Tonight was about me takin’ care of you. We’ll have all the time in the world when I get back from the war.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Bucky silences him with a kiss. Bucky wraps Steve’s arms around his neck and pulls Steve closer. The two Brooklyn boys spend what feels like hours just staring into each other’s eyes. Bucky’s going to miss Steve while he’s away. He’ll miss everything about Steve: his smile, the way he laughs, the way he stands up for what he believes in, the way he puts together Bucky’s lunch before Bucky heads out to the docks, the way he curls into Bucky’s warmth during the cold winter months, the way he lights up everything around him and the way he’s given Bucky something to live for.

“Stevie, I don’t want to go,” Bucky says, voice wavering. He’s letting out a steady drip of hot tears on Steve’s neck. Bucky’s chest rises and falls unsteadily against Steve. It’s not so often that Bucky is the one who needs protecting.

Steve rolls over so he can look Bucky in the eye. He wipes the tears from Bucky’s cheeks. “You’re gonna be a hero,” Steve says quietly. “Now everyone will know how heroic you are. I’ve known since I was almost ten. It’s time to share that with the world.”

Bucky burrows his head in Steve’s neck. “I don’t want to go. Don’t make me go, Steve. I can’t live without you.”

Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, hoping to calm him. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Please Steve, I’m beggin’ you. Don’t make me do this. Don’t make me leave you.”

“Oh Bucky,” Steve says, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. “I wish you could see what I see in you.”

Bucky continues to shake. He doesn’t hear what Steve is saying. “Don’t make me go. I don’t want to go. Steve, don’t leave me. Stevie, I can’t without you.”

“Shhh,” Steve says soothingly. “I’m right here, Bucky. I’m not going anywhere. Just be here with me tonight.”

Hours later, Bucky’s breaths and body slowly even out. He’s left muttering the same few things over and over again. “Don’t leave me Steve, please don’t make me go. I won’t go. Not without you.”

* * *

_The automobile comes to a slow stop, gravel crunching. A large building with high windows looms ahead of them. Round turrets frame the intimidating complex. Arches in grey stone, chimneys protruding from the roof, and tower roofs slimming to sharp points, green with age. There are a couple of patients milling around with caretakers, none really seeming to be completely present._

_The green grass and trees surround the complex, the birds chirping merrily in the eaves. They don’t belong. This is not a place of joy or merriment._

_The day is bright, too bright._

_James remains in the car while Sister Catherine goes to the front door. He hears her talking to the man, but her voice is muffled through the car window._

_“He’s been like this since we got him.” Two sets of footsteps make their way to the car, the door wrenched open. A man with a receding hairline and prominent eyebrows takes the small carpet bag full of James’ meager belongings._

_“I think he’ll do well here,” the man says. He grabs James’ arm, leading him from the car. “We’ll take it from here.” James is pulled to his feet, his head looking down, just as always._

_“Thank you, Mr. Schmidt,” Sister Catherine says, turning the ignition._

_“Good day,” Mr. Schmidt replies, tipping his head. He turns to the young man left in his care. “Welcome James. I think you’ll find it pleasant here.”_

_James doesn’t respond. He never responds._

* * *

Bombs explode in the distance. Gunfire rains down on them. Bucky dives for cover. War is terrible. It’s like there’s a fog in his head that just never clears. He doesn’t have a second of silence. He hears distant screams. People pounding and scratching always. He’s confused. Those aren’t sounds of war. But then he has to run for cover. It doesn’t matter what’s going on around him. He just needs to stay safe.

He thinks of Steve. He always thinks of Steve.

He hasn’t heard from Steve in a long time. He’s written some letters, but it’s like Steve never existed. Steve never writes back. Bucky thinks about him a lot.

He remembers Steve’s smile. It could light up the gloomiest of days. He remembers Steve’s laugh. It sounded like angels singing. He remembers the way Steve would get when he sketched. It was like watching Da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa. He remembers the way Steve would speak to him – softly and reverently. It was like Bucky was the most important person in the world. He remembers the way Steve made such beautiful noises as Bucky drew his orgasm from him.

But now he’s got nothing.

All he has is war. The never ending noise and chaos in his own head. Always living in fear. He has a unit, but they’re not Steve. No one can be Steve.

The fog. It won’t let up. Compressing every organ in his body. Maybe it’s his equipment. He doesn’t know. All he can think about is surviving the next second, the next minute, the next hour, the next day.

And all the while, he misses Steve.

* * *

_The walls are closing in. People scream and shout. The bed is hard beneath his back. The pillow so thin it might as well not be there at all. Moonbeams dot the floor. Shafts of dust spiral and suspend in the light. Age old writings on the wall fall into shadows. Trees creak. People scream. Even footsteps patrol the halls. The walls shrink. The floor extends. The ceiling collapses. People shout. It’s small. Too small._

_A pair of men come to Room 704 peering through the peephole. James lies on the bed convulsing, turning from side to side, head never resting still. The shorter man with glasses speaks his mind first._

_“He’s thrashing again. Maybe we should increase is dosage.”_

_Schmidt continues to watch James, noting the minute long pauses in his fits. Calm. And then nothing but calm. Schmidt turns to his colleague. “Mr. Zola, I think it’s time for more drastic measures.”_

_Eyes widen behind the spectacles. “Are you saying it’s time for electroconvulsive therapy?”_

_“I see no other way,” Schmidt says, lips pressed into a thin line. James had been with them for months, first remaining catatonic but in the past week suddenly became violent and aggressive. His motions are sluggish and stunted, but James no longer stares at the wall. He throws himself at it. He punches and scratches it. He kicks it. He screams at it. New blood smears appear each day, the glistening red ones joining the old browning ones._

_Zola turns away from the door, facing Schmidt. “Very well,” he begins. “I’ll have him prepared and ready tomorrow morning.”_

_Schmidt shakes his head. Time is running out. “Tonight,” he says firmly. “We will begin tonight.”_

* * *

His unit is captured. He had tried so hard to protect his men. He needed them to stay safe. To prove to Steve that he’s a hero. But here they are. In cells, like animals. It’s cold, dark, and dank. There are men barking orders. They’re speaking German, but Bucky understands it perfectly.

“Who shall be our first subject?” one man asks.

“That one,” answers the other. They grab one of the soldiers (not from Bucky’s unit) and they drag him away. They can hear the screams. He screams and screams. They hear him cry. He cries and cries. They hear him beg. He begs and begs. Until he doesn’t. They come back for another. And the cycle starts again.

* * *

_The door creaks open, hinges squeaking from lack of use. Schmidt approaches James’ bed slowly, waiting for a calm in the storm. “Come with me, James,” he says, taking James by the arm. “It’s time for your treatment.”_

_James wants to fight, but there’s no strength in his body. He complies. Schmidt walks James down the long hallway, high arched ceilings echoing each step: Schmidt’s crisp clicking of his shoes and James’ shuffling of his slippered feet. They pass doors on either side, attendants checking on patients. James hears snippets of people when they pass open doors. Some are screaming. Some are crying. Some are begging. Some are silent._

_After what seems like days, Schmidt leads James into a room._

_“Lie here,” Schmidt commands._

_James complies. He feels straps around his arms, legs, and torso. He feels bound. He hates it. He tries to free himself._

_“Hush now, James. Don’t do that. It will all be over soon.”_

_He feels a prick. His muscles go lax._

_Schmidt nods in approval as James stops responding. He turns to his colleague, ready to start the procedure. “Mr. Zola, what are you’re levels?”_

_“Levels at one hundred percent.”_

_“Very well, let’s begin.”_

* * *

He’s never felt anything like it. After he watched a dozen men come to this room and not leave, he’s terrified. Spikes of pain shoot up and down his limbs, originating in his head and traveling downwards. It never ends. It continues on and on. Bucky can’t catch a break. He can’t catch his breath. He screams and screams, but it doesn’t help. The pain is there. Lodged in his cranium and never ceasing. The screams never stop. He’s in a loop. He can’t stop. The pain won’t stop.

_I’ve let you down, Stevie_ , he thinks as the screams turn to tears. Tears flow down his cheeks tickling his ears. He can’t see. The tears fall fast. He cries for the pain. He cries for leaving Steve. He cries for the life he’ll never get to live. He cries and cries.

He’s lost track of time. Maybe it’s been days. Maybe it’s been hours. Maybe it’s been minutes. His cries fade and turn to pleads. He begs for the pain to stop. He begs for it to end. He begs to go home. He begs to Steve to save him. He begs for it to end. He begs and begs.

And then there’s silence. Everything is heavy. Everything is fuzzy. He doesn’t know what’s real and what’s fake. The pain has ended, but it had gone on for so long that maybe it hadn’t ended. Maybe the pain keeps going on, but Bucky can’t feel it anymore. The screams have stopped. He’s run out of breath. The tears have stopped. He’s run out of them. The begging has stopped. He’s run out of things to beg for. He’s just silent. Mind and body. All silent.

Then it starts to come back to him. He’s Sergeant James Barnes. 32557038. James. Barnes. 3…2…55…7038…James…Barnes…

Suddenly he’s there. It’s like a dream.

“Bucky?”

It’s a voice Bucky never thought he’d hear again. It’s coming from so far away. Bucky is so far away.

“Oh my god,” the voice breathes. Straps are torn. Buckles are thrown. He’s free. He’s come to rescue him. “It’s me,” the voice says again, growing closer with each word.

“Steve?” Bucky says, testing the name in his mouth. It has been so long since he said it out loud. He can’t believe it. Steve. Why is Steve here. Steve should be home. Where it’s safe.

“C’mon,” Steve says, pulling Bucky up.

“Steve?” Bucky says again, still not believing it’s real.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve tells him, holding him up.

No, something’s not right. Steve’s different. Steve used to be small and skinny. Steve hardly came up to his chin. This must be an imposter. This isn’t Steve. It’s just another nightmare. It can’t be Steve.

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky says, not believing it’s Steve. It can’t be. How could this be? It’s not Steve. It’s not him.

They escape together. Steve joined the army. No, that’s not right. Steve couldn’t join the army. Steve was rejected from the army. Steve…weak, sickly Steve. Bucky can’t believe it. He’s seen too much. The war must be clouding his judgment. It’s not Steve. Steve isn’t here.

There’s a man with a fake face. That must be it.

“You don’t have one of those, do you?” Bucky asks, knowing the answer. He’s surprised. This must be another person using Steve’s face. Who dare use Steve’s face? Precious Steve. Little Steve. Steve – who he’s supposed to protect, not drag into this war. Stevie.

It looks bleak. There’s nothing they can do. He can’t let Not-Steve die. He waits for Not-Steve. He yells at Not-Steve what he told Stevie back in Brooklyn. Not without you. He knows it’s right. Why won’t the fog in his head let up?

“What happened to you? For real?” Bucky asks, when they’ve escaped enemy territory. He keeps poking Steve’s face, not convinced that there isn’t someone wearing a mask beneath it.

“Remember that night at the science expo? I met a man, Abraham Erskine, and he offered to get me in. I had to go, Buck. I had to do it for my country. So I went. I was chosen for Project Rebirth. They made me big and strong. They made me Captain America. Now people look at me. I’m not invisible anymore. Except in some ways, I’m even more invisible. No one knows who Steve Rogers was. No one cares. They just see Captain America.”

“Are you real?”

“Yes, Bucky. I’ll always be real.”

Bucky falls silent. He’s done that more and more recently. He stares at Steve. He wants to believe. He wants his friend back. He sees how Steve acts with the others. His morality and sense of duty has just increased with his size. Bucky can’t help but be a little proud. Proud and also terrified. He can’t lose Steve again, he just can’t. He vows to protect Steve even more, because now that Steve is big, Bucky knows that he’ll be off sacrificing himself for the good of the people. Bucky can’t lose Steve again.

* * *

_The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. James feels nothing._

_He’s allowed out of his room now. He’s heavily supervised, but he is calmer when sitting in the sunshine than in his small room. No walls closing in on him anymore. The screaming and scratching is quieter outside._

_Schmidt and Zola watch from the covered walkway as James sits on a bench, head tilted ever so slightly upwards towards the sky. “He’s better now,” Zola observes. “More docile.”_

_“Yes, I think the treatment plan worked. For now.” Schmidt turns and begins walking towards the offices. Zola follows._

_“We’ll monitor him closely,” Zola says, walking swiftly to keep up with Schmidt’s long legs. He holds a briefcase to his chest, his breaths coming in small pants. “Hopefully he will not relapse.”_

_“Hopefully,” Schmidt replies, entering his office and seating himself behind the imposing desk. He turns to his work and Zola knows he’s no longer welcome._

* * *

“C’mon, Stevie! It’ll be fun!”

“I am not playing strip poker in the middle of the German winter,” Steve says rolling his eyes.

“Don’t be such a wet blanket. I thought you’d be more adventurous now that you’ve got that body and special metabolism.”

“Sorry, Buck. Still me on the inside. I’m not strippin’ down to my skivvies in this weather.”

“Fine, then I suppose we should find something else to do. Know anywhere around here that has good dancin’? I could use a good dance.”

“Peggy says there’s a place about a mile from here.”

“Oh, she’s Peggy now?” chides Bucky. He’s not jealous. Steve can have other friends. He’s a little jealous.

“Stuff it,” Steve says, socking him in the shoulder. “Wanna see if I’ve gotten any more coordinated?”

“What? You? You were born with two left feet. I don’t think an extra foot is gonna change that.”

“Maybe that new foot is a right one. Y’never know.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to roll his eyes. He’s so glad Steve is back. He had missed his friend so much. He’s so glad that Steve is here – where he can protect him. He didn’t know how important protecting Steve was to him until Steve wasn’t there. And now Steve is here with him. They’re both at war, but it’s better than nothing.

“All right, pal, let’s go. But if you step on my feet, it’s your fault.”

Steve smiles. God, Bucky had missed that smile. The one that made the sun shine on the dreariest of days.

They step into the club. The music is good, the liquor is flowing, and the girls are sophisticated dames with a thirst for soldiers. Bucky has no trouble finding a sweet blonde who can match him step for step. Steve watches as their whirl and twirl across the dance floor, catching the eye of many patrons. Steve is glad to see Bucky happy again. Bucky’s smiles are so far and few between.

Steve picks up a couple drinks for him and Bucky. He can’t get drunk, and he hasn’t really seen Bucky _drunk_ since he had been rescued. But that doesn’t mean they both don’t love the warming sensation a good glass of Scotch gives them.

“You looked mighty fine with that one, Buck,” Steve says as Bucky comes back to the bar, sweat glistening on his brown, chest heaving.

“Thanks. It’s your turn next.” Bucky takes one of the glasses from Steve’s hand. He downs it in one go and winces as it trails fire down his throat. He shakes his head and lifts his finger for another. The bartender hands him another. Bucky hasn’t felt so happy and content in a long time. The fog is still there. He’s not forgotten that they’re in the middle of a war, but for one night, he can be Bucky and not Sergeant James Barnes.

“Let’s go try out that new foot of yours,” Bucky says, pulling Steve onto the dance floor. Steve throws his head back in laughter when he steps on Bucky’s foot within the first minute. He tries his best to follow Bucky, but limbs are moving all too quickly.

Bucky is breathless with laughter. He feels safe. He feels at home. He know this is what he wants for the rest of his life. Steve, by his side, laughing and being mischievous together. Bucky grabs Steve’s hands – now so large and muscular – and pulls him in circles. They both have smiles that could bring the end of the war on their faces.

“I wish it could be like this forever,” Bucky says, pulling Steve close. A little closer than strictly appropriate, but people are too busy with their own business to care.

“Me too, Buck, me too,” Steve says. They sway to their own beat, slow enough so Steve doesn’t completely ruin Bucky’s feet but fast enough that the room is spinning.

“Y’know, Buck,” Steve says quietly, hot breath tickling Bucky’s ear. “We could get outta here and find somethin’ else fun to pass the time. We’re not expected back before mornin’.”

Bucky looks at Steve, surprise in his eyes. “Steven Grant Rogers,” he replies, a smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“I don’t know Sergeant, that’s up to you.”

Bucky feels his knees weaken, glad that he’s holding on Steve, otherwise he’d definitely topple over. Bucky had learned on that last night that Steve had quite a mouth on him, and Bucky is not complaining one bit.

“Lead the way, Captain,” Bucky smiles, nudging his hips towards Steve’s letting Steve feel the growing bulge in his pants. Steve growls and pulls Bucky from the dance hall. They tumble out into the cool British night, holding each other close and tripping over each other’s feet. To anyone else, they’re just two drunk soldiers.

“I saw an inn up the way,” Steve slurs, dragging Bucky. Bucky follows blindly, drunk on Steve, wanting nothing more than to pull Steve to him and never let go.

“Better make it snappy Stevie, I dunno how much longer I can wait.”

Bucky doesn’t know how, but suddenly they’re at their room. Steve must have done something, because all’s silent around them. “We won’t be disturbed,” Steve whispers to Bucky as he opens the door. The two fall into the room in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Before Bucky can even hear the door close, Steve presses him against the wall in a display of dominance that makes Bucky’s cock harden and his knees weaken.

“You’ve taken care of me for long enough,” Steve says in a low, husky voice. Bucky can’t help but let out a small groan from his throat. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

The fog in Bucky’s head is just as thick as ever, and Bucky can’t find it in him to fight. He feels Steve’s body pressed against his, all points of contact hot and hard. He gropes at Steve’s shoulders trying to find purchase. His mind is blank as Steve peppers kisses up and down Bucky’s throat. He can’t think, he can only feel. Steve finally makes it to Bucky’s lips, capturing them in a kiss that Bucky feels like he’s waited a lifetime for. All the pain and terror of the war disappear. Bucky feels safe in Steve’s hand – Steve’s familiar hand.

Steve’s tongue traces Bucky’s lips and Bucky opens his mouth, letting Steve explore. Bucky kisses back with vigor, teeth clashing and tongues swirling. It’s hot. It’s wet. It’s everything Bucky’s ever needed.

“I want to fuck you,” Steve says in that voice that makes Bucky lose his mind. “I want to use my tongue to open you and make you beg and whine for me until you can’t take it anymore and then I want to fill you with my cock, pounding you until you forget your name.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky breathes, not believing the words coming out of Steve’s mouth. “Yes please,” he begs, completely ready for whatever Steve will give him.  
Steve pulls Bucky from the wall, walking him backwards to the bed. Bucky feels Steve’s hard length through his pants, moaning as their cocks rub together. If it feels so good through layers of clothing, Bucky can only imagine what it will be like to feel Steve’s hot cock. Bucky needs to know. Now.

“Steve,” he says through the kisses, his mouth swollen and red. “Can these come off now?” He starts trying to remove Steve’s jacket only to encounter too many buckles and zippers. “ _Steve_ ,” Bucky whines, pawing at the straps keeping Steve from being shirtless. Steve breaks the kissing only to frantically undo his uniform, cursing it to high heavens.

“For fuck’s sake, why’d they put on so many damn buckles?” Steve says, pulling and accidentally ripping a few. Bucky’s eyes go wide, feeling a flush of warmth go straight to his aching cock.

“It’s a real pain in the ass,” Bucky responds breathily, starting to remove his own shirt.

“Stop,” Steve says. “I wanna do it.” Bucky’s eyes go wide, his pupils completely dilated. Steve’s words go right through Bucky’s entire body. Fire simmering deep within ever crevice, every pore. All his muscles and bones burn with them. All the ache – the need, the desire, the pure _want_ – in Bucky flares.

After what seems like hours, Steve finally manages to rid himself of the offending garment, pulling off his jacket and undershirt. He goes back to kissing Bucky like a starving man who has found food. Bucky feels Steve’s long fingers – the ones that drew him so many beautiful pictures – trail burning paths up his ribcages, taking his shirt with them. Bucky hisses at the cool air as it hits his chest, but presses up to Steve’s warm body. His shirt is tossed in some corner where he’ll find it later. Hours, days, whatever later might be. He enjoys the feeling of skin-on-skin. It reminds him of the nights he and Steve had slept shirtless to conserve body heat. This is absolutely like that and _nothing_ like that at all. Their combined body heat creates a light sheen of sweat on their bodies, their hair dampening as their bodies curve together. Steve gently lowers Bucky onto the bed, climbing over him, their bodies touching everywhere.

“I love you,” Steve breathes in Bucky’s ear, nibbling at the shell.

“I love you too, Stevie. Always have, always will,” Bucky responds.

“You were always so good to me,” Steve mutters, almost to himself. He trails kisses down Bucky’s neck to his chest, tongue flicking out every so often. “You saw me when no one else did.” He licks a wet circle around Bucky’s nipple. “You fought by my side and not against me.” He flicks Bucky’s nipple with his tongue, sucking lightly. “You made me feel whole.” He trails kisses to the other nipple, giving it the same attention. “You showed me that there’s good in this world.” He reaches to Bucky’s belt and starts to undo it, kissing a path to Bucky’s navel. “You inspired me to be better.” He pulls Bucky’s pants down, palming the hardness, noting the droplets of precome dotting the tip. “You gave me more than I deserved.” He pulls Bucky’s briefs down to join the discarded pants. “You’re the reason I got up in the morning.” He takes Bucky’s cock in his hand, stroking lazily from base to tip, squeezing out the clear droplets.

All the while, Bucky can only lie still, chest heaving. What Steve is saying, what Steve is doing, it all is too much for Bucky. This is his Stevie. This is what he’s dreamed about for years. This is what he’s fantasized about since he learned what that even meant. This is _Steve_. His Steve. Making Bucky moan and shout and unable to function. When Steve finally gets to his cock, Bucky lets out a scream. He’s thought about how this might feel since that last night in Brooklyn, but this is a million times better than anything he could imagine. Steve’s hand is sure and steady, making even strokes with a little twist of the wrist at the tip. The pads of his index fingers trail over Bucky’s slit, spreading the clear precome, making Bucky whine.

“Oh fuck, Steve,” Bucky moans, his hips lifting, trying to get more contact. Steve forces his hips to be still. “More, Steve, _please_ …oh god, more.”

“Shh, Buck, I’m takin’ care of you tonight.” Steve kisses up and down Bucky’s inner thighs, sucking slightly at the delicate skin. Bucky wriggles, unable to stay still. “Stop movin’ Buck,” Steve says gently but with enough force that Bucky falls still. “Tonight I’m gonna make you feel good.”

_God, how did I get so lucky_ , Bucky thinks, fighting the fog in his head. He wants to remember every second of this. He just loves the way Steve caresses his skin, making him feel like the only important thing on the planet. Not the war, not the troops, just Steve and Bucky. Together. How it should be.

Bucky is jerked from his thoughts when Steve breathes on his cock, pulling a bead of liquid from the head. Steve pokes his tongue out to taste it, both boys moaning at the sensation.

“More,” Bucky pleads. “Please, Steve, more.”

Steve smiles coyly, licking slowly from base to tip. Bucky’s hips jerk upwards involuntarily only to be pushed down by Steve’s strong hand.

“I’ll stop if you keep moving,” he says, lips moving along Bucky’s cock. Bucky can’t respond. He’s lost the capacity to form words, but he stops moving. “Much better,” Steve says. He continues the slow licks from base to tip, getting Bucky slick with spit. Bucky can feel Steve tracing his straining veins, painfully slowly. He gasps and tips his head back when Steve flicks the underside of his tip with his tongue. Electric shocks flow through Bucky’s body as Steve caresses his balls and the sensitive skin behind them. His breathing becomes ragged when Steve uses just the right amount of suction at the tip. His body strains as he tries to remain still. His body thrums with the pure _need_ to move, but he can’t or else Steve will stop.

After what feels to Bucky like a lifetime, Steve finally pulls Bucky’s straining cock into his mouth, nose buried in Bucky’s pelvis. Bucky lets out a strangled shout, back arching off the bed.

“Oh _fuck_!” he cries, overwhelmed with the feeling of hitting the back of Steve’s throat. And then Steve moves. As slowly and steadily as his strokes, Steve moves up and down Bucky’s cock, tongue swirling around the head, gently sucking, and palming Bucky’s balls. “Oh fuck Steve, so good, so…” Bucky can’t finish his sentence. The sensations are more than he’s ever felt. He feels more alive, every nerve tingling.

All too soon, Bucky feels the telltale pull in his balls as they tighten, ready to explode at the slightest touch. “S-Steve, I’m gonna come if you keep doin’ that,” he manages to say, slurring his words.

“Don’t care,” Steve replies, mouth still around Bucky’s cock. Steve’s lips are red and shining with spit and precome. “Want you to come in my mouth.”

“No,” Bucky starts. “It’s too soon, don’t wanna ruin the fun.”

Steve smiles. “Don’t you think the night’s over when you come, Barnes. I got plenty planned for you.”

Bucky moans in reply, letting his head fall back against the mattress. His orgasm is coming to him, growing and swelling like a wave, and he’s powerless to stop it. Steve doesn’t stop his ministrations, taking Bucky deeper and harder, never stopping, never giving Bucky a break, and Bucky couldn’t ask for something better.

Steve slips his slick hand over Bucky’s balls and over the delicate skin behind them, gently brushing a single finger over Bucky’s tight hole. Suddenly, before Bucky can even let out a warning, his balls tighten and he’s spurting into Steve’s mouth, the sensations rolling over each other, making waves that radiate to his finger tips and toes and back again, never ending, never stopping. The world stops turning. The stars stop shining. The angels stop singing. All that’s good in the world pauses to let Bucky feel with every fiber of his being and all that he has. They stop and start and culminate in a rush of emotion and pleasure that has Bucky taut and silently accepting the sweet torture of an orgasm like he’s never had.

“S-Steve,” Bucky moans as his orgasm washes over him. It’s like he’s in a trance. He feels everything, he knows it’s happening, but he can’t speak, he can’t move, all he can do it let it happen. It’s better than anything he’s felt before, it’s stronger and more intense than ever. All he wants to do is scream and yell and writhe, but all he can do is let it happen.

Steve keeps sucking him, swallowing every drop, continuing his massage of Bucky’s balls and hole, not letting up even as Bucky’s cock grows soft in his mouth. Bucky’s over stimulated body twitches as he comes down from his high, the world spinning again, the stars shining again, and the angels singing again.

“Fuck Steve,” Bucky moans, as Steve finally releases Bucky’s cock. “That was…fuck.”

Steve smiles. “We haven’t even gotten to he good part yet,” he teases.

Bucky tries to sit up, his muscles quivering and straining with the effort. “Jesus Steve, you’re pants aren’t even off yet.” Steve looks down as if he had completely forgotten. “Let me at least touch you.”

“Not yet,” Steve replies, that Cheshire cat grin back on his face. “I’m not done with you. I got lots of time to make up for.”

Bucky falls back to the mattress, pulling a hand through his sweaty hair. “Fuck Steve, how can it get better than that?”

“Roll onto your stomach and put your hips up and I’ll show you.”

Bucky groans in anticipation, using his arms to help get into the position Steve requested.

“Have you ever been rimmed before, Bucky?” Steve asks, crawling behind Bucky, playing with the sweet swells of Bucky’s ass.

“Fuck Stevie,” Bucky responds.

“Oh this will be fun,” Steve says, running his hands up and down Bucky’s back and thighs. Steve starts his trail of kisses at Bucky’s neck, mirroring the attention he paid to the front. His tongue dances and swirls around the muscles and contours of Bucky’s back, making Bucky squirm and moan. “You were so good for me Buck,” Steve says. “You tasted so good. I can’t wait to taste all of you.”

Bucky lets out a strangled groan. “Where’d you learn to talk like this, Rogers?” he asks, ducking his head, too weak to hold it up.

“Learned from the best,” Steve answers, never letting his lips leave Bucky’s back. His skin is slick with sweat when Steve finally makes it to his hole. “You ready, Buck?”

“Please,” Bucky pleads, his cock already starting to harden again. “Please.”

Bucky feels Steve smile at his tailbone before a warm, wet tongue flicks out and pushes at Bucky’s hole. The sound that erupts from Bucky’s mouth is one he didn’t even know he was capable of. He feels Steve’s tongue working at his tight hole, alternating between light touches and long licks. Unconsciously, he rolls his hips back trying to get more contact, but Steve’s hands push him forwards again.

“Now, now, Buck, you know the rules,” Steve says, the vibrations of his voice hum along Bucky’s ass. He feels Steve wrap his mouth around his hole and suck in gently. He lets out a whimper, his cock now dripping precome again. He feels coolness when Steve severs the connection of lips to skin, but he’s soon filled with warm from Steve’s spit. Steve takes his finger and circles Bucky’s hole, making sure it’s good and wet. He continues licking and sucking, making everything slippery with spit.

Carefully, Steve takes a long finger and slowly inserts it into Bucky’s ass. Bucky keens at the intrusion, reveling in the sharp stretch.

“Shh, Bucky, it’s okay. I gotcha. You’re gonna be okay,” Steve soothes, his mouth not far from Bucky’s back. Steve slowly pulls his finger out only to push it in again. Bucky whimpers. Steve adds his tongue back into the mix, probing at the stretched hole while his finger moves steadily in and out, in and out. “Ready for another?” Steve asks, making sure there’s enough spit.

“Please,” Bucky whines. “I’m ready.” Steve carefully inserts a second finger, making sure to lave the surrounding hole with his tongue. He still alternates between light prods and long licks. Bucky feels high as a kite, his world narrowing so it’s only him and Steve. He wants all of Steve.

“ _Steve_ …more,” Bucky begs brokenly. “I need you in me. _Please_.”

Steve pulls both fingers in and out until they’re moving without resistance. Bucky’s fisting the bed sheets, biting down on the cover. His eyes are squeezed shut, sweat dripping from his forehead.

“Is that good, Bucky?” Steve asks, starting the curl his fingers, searching for that one spot that will drive Bucky crazy. Bucky can only answer with an open mouth moan. Steve pumps his fingers in and out, curling and searching. Just when Bucky doesn’t think he can take anymore, Steve finds that spot inside him, brushing his fingers along it. Bucky’s knees give out, leaving him sprawled on the bed, panting and writhing.

“Again. Please Steve, there again.”

Steve pushes in and out, catching that spot on every stroke. “Think you can handle another finger?” Steve asks Bucky.

“Oh fuck Steve, please, yes, _fuck_.” Steve pulls Bucky’s hips off the bed, and slowly so as not to hurt him, adds a third finger, stretching the ring of muscles. He’s unable to reach Bucky’s prostate at this angle, but the slight burn of the stretch makes Bucky’s head spin. “Holy fuck, Steve, more, please give me more.” Steve increases the speed of his hand, reaching his other hand around to Bucky’s strained cock. He wraps his hand around Bucky’s length and strokes in time with his other hand.

“So good for me Bucky, you’re so beautiful,” Steve murmurs, his mouth on Bucky’s balls.

“Oh Steve,” Bucky begs, “Please, fuck me, I need to feel you inside me. I want you to fuck me.”

Steve pulls his hands off Bucky’s body and Bucky whimpers at the loss. He weakly reaches his own hand to his cock, sighing at the contact. He hears Steve’s pants unzip and fall to the floor. He’s forgotten that Steve hadn’t even gotten his pants off. He feels the bed depress as Steve comes up behind him. “Turn over,” Steve says, his voice low. “I want to see your beautiful face.”

It takes all Bucky has to make his body move, but he rolls onto his back, parting his legs. “Mmm,” Steve says, taking in the sight of him. “So gorgeous, and all for me.” Bucky whimpers, putting his hand back on his cock, smearing the liquid dripping from the trip. “Nuh uh uhh,” Steve chides, pulling Bucky’s hand off. Steve spits into his own hand and brings it back to Bucky’s hole. He easily slips in three fingers, making Bucky arch off the bed. “I think you’re ready for me, don’t you?”

“Please Steve, I need it, I need to feel.”

Steve slides closer, hiking Bucky’s legs over his shoulders. He lets a line of spit fall onto his own straining cock and he strokes it to spread the moisture. “Mmmmm,” Steve moans. “Feels so good, Buck. You’re gonna feel so good.”

Steve lines himself up with Bucky, slowly pushing the head into Bucky’s tight ass. Bucky’s hands fly around the sheets, searching for purchase. “Oh shit,” he gasps just the tiniest bit in pain, feeling the most glorious stretch as Steve slowly – god it’s so slow – pushes his whole length into Bucky. Bucky has never felt as full and content. He winces slightly at the intrusion, but his face is peppered with kisses from Steve. Their mouths meet and Bucky groans. He can still taste just a hint of his own come in Steve’s mouth. “Fuck that’s good, Steve,” he breathes, grasping the sheets harder.

“You feel so good,” Steve whispers, feeling Bucky’s ass on his hips. Bucky wriggles his hips trying to get Steve to start moving. Steve buries his head in Bucky’s neck and slowly pulls out. Bucky cries out in pleasure at the friction Steve’s cock makes against his sensitive walls. When just the head of Steve’s cock is left in Bucky, Steve thrusts, pushing Bucky up the bed.

“FUCK!” Bucky yells, his head thrown back. He looks at Steve with wide eyes. “Again!”

Again Steve pulls all the way out and slams back in. Over and over until Bucky sees stars. His tosses his head from side to side, trying to stay present. He grabs Steve’s shoulders, and pulls his legs farther up, nearly bending himself in half. The new angle allows Steve’s cock to hit his prostate on every thrust. It’s amazing. It’s earth shattering. It’s everything Bucky has ever wanted and needed.

“Holy shit, Steve, don’t stop, please…faster,” he mumbles, eyes squeezed shut. Steve braces his hands on the pillows behind Bucky’s head and lifts himself onto his toes, as if he’s about to do a pushup. He pistons into Bucky, going deeper and harder on each trust. He lets one hand travel down Bucky’s chest, tweaking a nipple on the way to grabbing his cock, hot, heavy, and drooling precome. Bucky hadn’t even realized that his own cock was throbbing until Steve started stroking it. The new sensation nearly brings Bucky to tears.

Steve slows for a minute to catch his breath, letting Bucky do the same. Bucky reaches up to pull Steve down for a searing kiss. Their tongues battle and they bite lips. Bucky can feel every pulse in Steve’s cock, still buried deep inside him. With the small reprieve from the relentless pleasure, Bucky feels part of him come back. He regains control of his limbs and his facility to speak.

“I want to fuck you,” he whispers to Steve. “I want to fuck your ass.”

“No,” Steve says, starting the speed up again. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

Bucky wants to reply but before he can get any words out, Steve thrusts into him so hard and so fast that all he can hear is the slap of skin and the knock of the headboard against the wall. His eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack as he grabs for the crumpled sheets on either side of him. Steve is relentless, never loosing his steady pace.

Steve pauses for just a second, long enough for Bucky to say once again, “I want to fuck that ass. It’s my turn.” Before he can think twice, Bucky takes both hands and all his strength to push Steve onto his back. Buck sits up, Steve’s cock still in his ass. “That’s better,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss Steve. “It’s my turn now.”

Bucky slowly rises off of Steve’s cock, missing the feeling of being so full. He leans down and takes Steve’s cock into his mouth. It’s the first time he’s really gotten to see it. It’s beautiful and magnificent. It’s longer and thicker than it was before, and Bucky thinks for a moment that he’s glad he didn’t see it before, because he did not think that it would ever fit in his ass. Bucky stretches his lips around Steve’s cock, bobbing his head up and down. He reaches up and puts two fingers into Steve’s mouth, making them wet. Steve licks and sucks on Bucky’s fingers making him moan around Steve’s cock. Steve’s hips jerk at the vibrations running up and down his length. When Bucky deems his fingers slick enough, he removes them from Steve’s mouth and moves them to his tight hole. He starts with one finger and then another, opening Steve, scissoring his fingers and feeling Steve’s velvety walls. Bucky watches as Steve’s chest rises and falls brokenly, soft moans escaping from his lips as his head thrashes back and forth. Steve has taken such good care of him up until now, and it’s his turn to care for his Stevie. This is what he’s made for – making Steve feel good.

“I’m ready now,” Steve says. “Don’t worry about hurting me, you can’t.” Bucky leaves Steve’s cock with one last suck and coats his own cock with a layer of spit. He lines himself up with Steve’s hole, almost crying at how tight it is. Inch by inch, Bucky sinks into Steve’s warmth, praying that he can keep it together. There’s a couple inches left when Bucky just can’t go any further. He rolls his hips experimentally, watching as Steve’s eyes close and his head tips back. He thrusts shallowly, letting Steve’s hole get accustomed to Bucky’s cock. He watches as the tendons in Steve’s neck strain and Steve’s eyes pop open to watch Bucky.

Slowly, Steve’s muscles relax and Bucky’s able to thrust deeper. Steve’s hand makes its way to his cock, gently stroking, not applying much pressure. As Bucky’s thrusts increase in speed and intensity, Steve’s hand waits poised inches away from his cock, too close to the edge. Bucky puts his hands on either side of Steve’s head, trapping Steve’s legs. Bucky pounds into Steve, relishing in the tight heat and the way that he feels complete with Steve here.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, kissing Steve’s lips. “You can let go. You’ve taken care of me enough tonight.” A high pitched whine rips its way through Steve as he places his hand back on his dripping cock.

“Go hard,” Steve whispers, pumping his hand up and down. Bucky redoubles his thrusts, pistoning in and out of Steve. Bucky feels his balls tightening, but wills his orgasm to wait until Steve’s come. Within a few seconds, Steve is spurting so hard that some lands by his ear and a line of come lands right across Steve’s face. Bucky fucks Steve through his orgasm, making the sensations last longer and longer. Steve’s shoulders curve in on themselves, and Steve pushes Bucky away with a shaking hand. “Enough,” he breathes. “Stop.” Bucky slips out of Steve and takes his cock in his own hand. His balls are high and tight, and his orgasm is an inferno in his stomach.

Steve takes a shaking hand and inserts a finger up Bucky’s still open ass, searching for that spot he had found earlier that made Bucky scream. Bucky shudders at the feeling of Steve’s fingers filling him once again as he continues to stroke his cock. It’s hot and heavy and he’s so close. He just needs…

And then Steve finds it. All it takes is one finger brush along his prostate and Bucky is coming. Long ribbons of come fly across Steve’s stomach, making a beautiful design. Bucky’s mind goes blank as each spurt causes another wave of pleasure to course through his body. He feels Steve’s fingers stroking his prostate. He feels his own hand along his dick. He feels the fingers of his other hand toying with his balls. He feels Steve’s breath next to him. He feels the bed under him, warm and sticky with sweat and come. He feels the air around him, humming with excitement. He feels the oxygen sucked from the room as his pleasure runs through him. He cries out when he feels Steve’s warm mouth around his softening cock, drawing out the last of his orgasm.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, falling on his stomach next to Steve. “Fuck.” Steve just chuckles. Bucky wants to say something more elaborate. Something more meaningful, but all he can think is _fuck_.

They lie side by side, Bucky on his stomach and Steve on his back. Strips of come drying on Steve’s belly. It’ll be gross later, but they couldn’t care less. Their breaths come easier as they come down from their highs. Steve rolls over, draping an arm around Bucky’s back. This position is familiar to Bucky. He lay like this with Steve countless times in Brooklyn, only he used to be the one whose arm was draped over Steve. Now it’s the other way around. It’s wrong. It doesn’t feel like it used to.

“Roll over,” Bucky says quietly, turning onto his side.

“No, I like protecting you,” Steve replies, snuggling in closer.

“That’s my job,” Bucky says, pleadingly. “Please, just roll over.” The need to protect Steve is bubbling in his chest causing his breathing to speed up.

Sensing Bucky’s urgency, Steve sighs and turns onto his stomach. Bucky pulls him close to his body, trying to grasp and the lost feeling of when Steve was skinny. Bucky pulls Steve into his arms and holds him there. His breaths slow and his heart rate normalizes. Steve tucks his arms under his chin and curls into the warms of Bucky’s body. And so they stay, drifting together in a world riddled with strife and war. A beacon of light to any who passed. A lighthouse in a storm. A path home. A happy ending. A safe haven.

* * *

_Zola knocks on the door to Schmidt’s office. Clouds sit heavily over the compound, the patients agitated and restless. The weather has been like this for weeks. The dullness of February never ceases to frustrate anyone._

_“He’s been holding steady,” Zola remarks, lying out some reports for Schmidt to read. “I’m happy to see that the treatment has worked.”_

_Schmidt looks over the paperwork carefully, signing on a few lines and initialing on a couple others. “As am I,” he says thoughtfully. He pauses to rifle through his desk drawer. “Although there has been some troubling activity recently.”_

_“Has there?” Zola asks, surprised._

_“Yes,” Schmidt replies, distractedly. He’s still sifting through the contents of his desk drawer. “He’s becoming more catatonic again. I have also heard from some of the orderlies that they have found semen on his clothes and on the walls.”_

_“Semen, Sir?” Zola asks, eyes wide._

_“Yes, apparently he’s been ejaculating fairly regularly. No one has seen him physically moving, so they are assuming it’s happening without his knowledge.”_

_“How recently has this developed?”_

_“Past couple of days, as far as I’ve heard,” Schmidt replies. He pulls something out of the crevice of his desk drawer. “A ha!” he cries. “I’ve been looking for this.”_

_“Anything else on Barnes?” Zola asks, trying to reclaim Schmidt’s attention._

_“What? Oh yes,” Schmidt says, focusing back on Zola. “He’s stopped eating again.”_

_Zola huffs. “You should have told me.”_

_“Let it play out for now. We’ll reevaluate soon.”_

* * *

“We’ve only got about a ten second window,” Steve says, looking at the canyon below. “You miss that window, we’re bugs on a windshield.”

“Mind the gap.”

“Better get moving bugs!”

And then they’re falling. Bucky does feel like he’s going to throw up. His hands are cold. So cold. He’s made friends. He has a place in this world. With Steve by his side, he feels like he could do anything. But here they are. On a train that’s only moving forward. He is only moving forward. He and Steve get caught in gunfire. Their opponent has a blue, glowing weapon. It doesn’t look real. It’s like something Bucky read about as a child. He’s seen it in action. He knows what it can do.

He and Steve work as a well oiled machine. It helps that they’ve been fighting side by side for years. Things are looking up. They’ve taken down one of the glowing men and there’s a moment of reprieve in the battle.

Things are going well, but Bucky can’t help but shake the gnawing feeling like something is not right. He takes the opportunity to look at Steve – _really_ look at him. Steve. His Steve. The little boy he saved when he was 11. They’d been friends ever since. Steve had helped Bucky through some of his toughest times. Steve had been Bucky’s rock. Steve had been everything Bucky wasn’t. Steve had been the yin to Bucky’s yang. Steve had given Bucky one beautiful, apocalyptic night of passion. Steve had given everything he is and everything he has to Bucky. Steve _saw_ Bucky unlike anyone else. Steve understood Bucky like no one else had. Steve always just _knew_.

Bucky takes a moment to relish in his friendship, in their partnership. And then everything goes sideways. One of the glowing weapons blows a side of the train car and Bucky goes flying. He grabs a metal bar, holding on for dear life. The train continues onward – always moving forward.

Then, like a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day, he sees Steve. Steve is crawling out of the train, slowly and carefully, reaching out to Bucky. _I’m supposed to protect you_ , Bucky thinks, hoping that Steve will save him.

“Take my hand!” Steve calls over the rushing air. Bucky tries to move closer but the metal slips. He lets out a shout. Just…a…little…closer…

There’s a snap and a screech and it’s all over. The rushing stops. The repetitive sound of the wheels and the tracks stop. There’s nothing. Bucky is falling.

Bye, Steve. I’m sorry.

* * *

_The sun hangs low in the sky, lengthening shadows and casting everything in a golden halo. James is pacing his room like a caged animal aching for the wild. He’s begun to hit, kick, punch, and throw himself at all surfaces. His bed sheets are caked with bodily fluids in varying degrees of dryness. The walls smattered with blood and semen. The room is dank. It’s dark. It’s ominous. And yet there’s a golden halo cast on all parts. It’s a sight that is somehow beautiful._

_“It just keeps getting worse,” Zola remarks after another failed round of ECT._

_Schmidt slams his fist on his desk. “Then we try again!”_

_Zola shakes his head. “We’ve tried a dozen rounds of ECT. He needs something we can’t give him.”_

_“Then it’s time,” Schmidt says, taking a deep breath. He’s already pulling files and charts from the filing cabinets, preparing for transfer. “We’ll send him elsewhere.”_

_“When?”_

_“Tomorrow. He’s a danger here.”_

_Zola opens his mouth to reply when the door crashes open. An attendant, flustered and covered in blood splatters frantically tries to get Schmidt’s attention. “Sir!”_

_“What?” Schmidt asks, swiftly moving from behind his desk._

_“It’s Barnes,” the attendant replies, still catching his breath. “It’s his arm. I don’t know what happened.”_

_“Show me.”_

_Schmidt and Zola follow the harried man back to Room 704. The sight that greets them is one that would haunt the layman’s dreams. There’s a golden halo around the room, illuminating everything in a soft light. The majestic glow of the sunset cannot hide the gruesome truth of what happened in Room 704._

_James stands in the middle of the room, his arm mangled and bloody. There are bones protruding from the skin, the wrist bent at an unnatural angle. Multiple medics hover over James, trying to stem the flow of blood and stabilize the broken bones._

_“He must have run into the wall one too many times,” the attendant notes, moving out of the way._

_“Clearly,” Schmidt says tightly. His lips are pressed into a thin line. “Yes, Mr. Zola. He will be moved tomorrow.”_

_James feels nothing. He doesn’t acknowledge the blood running down his side. He complies. Compliance is rewarded._

* * *

He wakes up in a new place. The lights are low. He’s lying on something hard. Voices float in and out. Speaking in languages he doesn’t really understand. He tries to move, but instead gets a searing pain right up his left shoulder. He tries to move his head. More pain in his shoulder. He wants to forget. To leave the pain. He sleeps.

*

The next time Bucky comes into consciousness, he’s wrenched from his inner peace by pain. Pain in his skull, pain in his shoulder, pain in his back. It’s everywhere. It’s worse than when he was captured before. It’s all consuming. He tries to scream, but there’s something in his mouth. It tastes sour and like death. He tries to thrash, but stronger hands are on him. _Steve_ , he thinks. _Steve, please save me_. He knows Steve isn’t coming. He left Steve on that train. When he fell.

How is he still alive? He was falling. The pain overtakes him. He sleeps again.

*

“Move your hand,” a voice with a Swiss accent floats above him. He’s drawn out of his dark into the bright light of consciousness. “Move you hand,” the voice orders again.

Bucky obeys orders. He twitches the fingers on his right hand.

“You’re other hand,” the voice commands.

Bucky tries moving his left hand, but all he feels are electrical currents. They pulse their way up and down his nervous system. He can feel each electron moving. It hurts. It burns. He screams.

“Enough,” the voice says sharply. Bucky stops trying to make his hand move. He still can’t turn his head. He doesn’t know why his arm feels that way. He doesn’t want this. He didn’t sign up for this. He succumbs to the dark again.

*

A sharp zap of electricity brings him to the light again. He screams. He feels tugging. He hears liquids splashing onto the floor. He smells blood. He could never forget that smell. He hears a blowtorch. He smells metal burning. He’s out again.

*

When he wakes, he feels better. There’s no pain. There’re no straps binding him to a cold table. He can move.

“Water,” he croaks, internally wincing at the gravely quality to his voice.

“Soon. First, move your hands.” He’s not inclined to do so. He remembers how much it hurt. A jolt of electricity is pumped through his system. “I said move!”

Bucky complies. His moves his hand. He feels the pulsating electricity, but it doesn’t carry the same pain. It’s a weird feeling, but not pain.

“Water,” he says again.

“Soon,” the Swiss man tells him.

Bucky feels a rage he didn’t know he was capable of. It boils up through his blood. He has no Steve. He has no life. He doesn’t know where he is or even how he’s alive. All he wants is a little water. Who knows the last time he ate or drank. He just wants some water.

“I want water!” he bellows, striking the man nearest to him. He hears the clunk of metal against flesh. He can’t stop. He needs to keep going. He needs water. He hits and punches and throws and fights. Just like he did with Stevie back in Brooklyn. Just like he did in that god forsaken war. Just like he knows how to do.

It’s weird in his body…he feels uneven and off balance. It throws him for several loops, some of his punches not falling precisely as intended. He must have knocked out dozens of people before they manage to restrain him.

“I just wanted water,” he says again as the straps are bound once again. With the drop in adrenaline, he can feel the fog. The same fog that lay over him in the war, but this is five times worse. He can hardly think. He can hardly feel. He can hardly move. “I just wanted water.”

*

He has no concept of time. Images and moments swirl through the great fog that’s his head. Each time recalls something, it fades away. Before he can experience the emotion behind the memory, it’s erased. Wiped clean. He’s a clean slate. It’s white. He’s a new person.

*

“Let’s see what the Asset can do,” says a voice, drawing Bucky from his abyss. It’s a new voice. He hasn’t heard it before.

“We think you will find him satisfactory, sir.”

Bucky’s eyes open. He’s in some kind of bunker. There’s a table with diagrams and calculations. There’s a giant map on the wall. Lights flicker and buzz overhead.

“Good of you to join us, Vanya. Take a seat.”

Vanya. The name sounds right. Sounds like his name. He has no memories of Vanya’s past, but it feels like him.

Vanya takes a seat, carefully noting the exits and weapons at hand. He knows how to do this. He’s done this before.

“We have a mission for you. Read the file. You will begin at dawn.”

Vanya takes the manila envelope. It’s written in Cyrillic but he knows how to read it. He’s known since he can remember. Vanya spends the night reading and memorizing. Targets. Weapons. Missions. He can do it. He’s done it before.

It’s mission accomplished three days later. The men bring Vanya back to what he assumes is the home base. They put him in a chair and bind him to it. He doesn’t fight. Vanya knows what this is. Vanya’s done this before.

The pain is nothing new. Not anymore. He grits his teeth on the bite plate provided and allows the pain to wash over him. It’s easier if he doesn’t think about it. He sinks into his own head, watching moments from his mission appear and disappear, fading out before he can dwell on them. His mind is fog. His mind is white. His mind is nothing.

* * *

_The sun never shines here. It rains nearly every day. When it’s not raining, it’s snowing. When it’s not snowing, it’s hailing. When it’s not hailing, it’s oppressively cold. Steel grey clouds hang low in the sky, the air damp and cold._

_Rumlow prowls the halls ensuring that all is in order. Patients are rarely allowed outside. Most are bound to their beds. None are expected to leave._

_“He’s doing all right, don’t you think?” Alexander Pierce asks, watching James in their observation room. New patients spend a week under close observation before being moved to more permanent residence. James had come to them just a few days prior. Pierce had read the report, almost gleeful over the challenge presented to him. These are the kinds of cases he lives for._

_“For now,” Rumlow replies, keeping a careful eye on James. “He’s holding steady.”_

_“Yes,” Pierce agrees. “With the increased ECT, stable is all we can hope for. If things change with his status, we will have to reconsider.”_

_Rumlow nods and takes the file from the shelf near the one-way window. He skims through it, even though he knows all the information by heart. Yes, James will be a wonderful addition to their facility._

* * *

Years pass. Vanya watches as empires rise and fall. As leaders ascend only to be their own demise. As countries gain traction in the global economy only to make one error that has their castle crashing down. He’s helped with a lot of it. He’s been a part of the institution. He’s seen technology progress. He’s been programmed to understand and learn quickly. He can adapt to any situation. He lives as a ghost. He trains other people. He teaches them how to kill, how to hunt, how to live as a shadow. It’s what he knows. And at the end of the day, the fog takes over. His mind goes blank. He succumbs to the pain. He becomes a void.

“We have something for you, Vanya,” one man says. He’s been around for a long time. Longer than any other. “A new mission. I think you’ll like this one.”

Vanya nods. He never speaks anymore. Not after the incident in ’73.

“Read the file. You will begin at dawn.” All words that Vanya is familiar with, even though he has no recollection of them. His mission is simple. Same as all the others. Acquire target. Eliminate target. Mission complete.

First it’s the car. Easy. Like taking candy from a baby. He’s not used to the visibility that daylight on a busy street brings, but he’s gone before anyone knows he was there at all. Car explodes. Target not in car. Mission failed. It’s rare, but the files mentioned that he’d be going up against the best. But Vanya is better. Vanya will succeed.

He tries again that night. He’s been on the roof of the neighboring building for hours. His mind is at peace. Behind the scope, it’s just him and his target. He feels his rifle hum beneath him. He is silent. He’s waiting. Hours pass. Night falls. He waits.

He has his shot. The air quivers in suspense. He takes a long look in his scope, calculating for coriolis effect, the glass window, and the wind speed. This is his element. He could do this in his sleep. This is what he’s born to do.

Calm washes over him and the air quiets. He places his hand on the trigger, feeling it’s familiar warmth. He takes a deep breath. On the exhale, he squeezes the trigger. The night is silent except for the glass breaking. The bugs placed in the apartment pick up a woman’s voice calling in for backup. He knows the man with the shield is after him. He hears the glass breaking again. He needs to run.

This is his next element. Another place where he shines. He can become one with the night, gliding through the shadows, quiet as the wind. He jumps from roof to roof, keeping an eye out for the brightly colored shield (terrible tactical decision, in Vanya’s opinion. If he had opinions. Which he doesn’t). He hears a grunt and the sound of a man falling onto the roof. Vanya hears the metallic twang that the shield makes when it’s thrown. He’s got milliseconds.

Vanya turns over his left, grabbing the shield from midair. He feels the power behind the shield, but it can’t break his arm. He catches it as if it were no stronger than plastic. The man with the shield looks surprised. Vanya is sure no one has ever caught his shield and lived. He can feel the power and life vibrating in the shield’s core. He’s just done the impossible. He’s stopped a death sentence to any other. But Vanya isn’t like any other. He’s different. Stronger. Better.

He tosses the shield back at the other man, not waiting to watch if it slices him in two or if he catches it. He’s only got seconds. He jumps from the roof, extracting his collapsible grappling hook. He uses it to ease himself to the ground and he reels it in. Within moments, he’s rejoined the shadows, invisible to everyone.

He stays in back allies and dark corners while waiting for his next move. His handlers know not to expect him to check in before scheduled meetings. He doesn’t have one until day after next. He sits, biding his time. He knows his play. He’s known it since the first time it was hold to him. He always knows after the first briefing.

Secluded in his dark alley, Vanya takes stock of his weapons. He cleans his guns and knives. He checks the safety on all of them. It’s simple. It’s rote. It’s necessary. He hears a movement behind him. He grabs a knife, crouching ready to pounce. A small meow comes from the dumpster to his left. He looks over and sees a small cat wandering over to him. He should leave. But something stops him.

It’s been so long since he’s seen something that makes him want to smile. Vanya doesn’t smile. Vanya doesn’t feel. The cat comes over to him, still meowing softly. It nuzzles its nose against his boot, gently pawing at his leg. Vanya continues to crouch, not moving a muscle. His knife is still grasped in his hand. The cat mews at him more insistently, and Vanya rolls back on his heels. He crosses his legs, tucking his knife back in its holster. The cat makes a noise of approval before climbing into Vanya’s lap. Vanya tenses, but slowly begins to accept the feline. The cat kneads at his stomach, sniffing his armor. Vanya carefully takes his right hand (which is always steady) and watches it shake as he reaches out to hold it beneath the cat’s nose. The cat sniffs him and nuzzles into the outstretched hand. Vanya pets the cat, feeling a sense of calm he only ever feels when he’s behind his scope.

The sit that way for hours, Vanya and the cat. The cat had long since curled up in Vanya’s lap and began snoozing. Vanya continues to pet the cat, unable to stop. He knows it’s risky staying in one place for so long, but he can’t leave. He’s hypnotized by the cat. This other living being that wormed its way into his personal space. The fog he feels lifts slightly. He feels his muscles relax. His mind feels more open than it has before.

Dawn breaks. Vanya knows he can’t wait any longer. He packs up his things. He makes it look like no one was ever there. He gives the cat one more pet. Sensing Vanya’s departure, the cat nudges him and then takes off, streaking into the daylight. Vanya stands and stretches, his limbs tense from staying in one position all night. It’s nothing new. It’s familiar. It’s a familiar stretch. He needs to find his mission. He’s good at hunting. It doesn’t take long. He watches from afar, noting when the men on his side interfere at all. He watches, ready and waiting for the right moment.

It doesn’t come that day.

He finds another alley to hide in for the night. It’s methodically goes about cleaning his weapons and inventorying his ammunition. He’s been there less than an hour before he hears the softest pitter-patter. He knows that footfall. He stays where he is, organizing himself into a more comfortable position. The cat from the night before appears out of the wood palates piled in the corner. The car makes a beeline for Vanya’s lap, nestling in as if they’d been doing this their whole life. Vanya doesn’t remember ever being so attached to another living thing before. It’s new and different, and it clears his mind-fog even more. He’s hypnotized by the steady movement of his arm – up and down, up and down, up and down. It calls to mind something so far in his past he doesn’t know if it’s even his past. It feels foreign in my mind, but then again, everything does. It’s just a flash. A hand, moving up and down, much like how he’s petting the cat. Only, the cat is a small boy, wheezing with each breath. Vanya knows neither who the arm belongs to or who the small boy is, but it fills Vanya with an emotion he doesn’t know how to describe. It lights a fire in his belly and makes his head spin. He doesn’t know, but he’s feeling desire, longing.

Without another thought, Vanya shoves the cat off his lap and jumps to his feet. This is unlike him. He can’t be feeling. He needs his mind to be blank. He grabs his things and covers his tracks and runs. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he needs to go somewhere. Away from the cat. Away from whatever that flash was. Away from the warm feeling in his belly. Just away.

He walks around until the sun comes up. He finds his target. This is what he can do. This is what he is made to do. Vanya hunts. Vanya kills. Vanya doesn’t feel. He follows his target until he gets the signal. He doesn’t understand how, but he knows it’s time. There’s a car. There’s a bridge. There’s his target.

And so it begins. A fight to survive. Vanya’s mind clears of the cat and whatever happened the night before. He’s in his element. Kicking, punching, flipping, and striking. This is his mission. There are explosions, gunfire, knives, and hand combat so fast that Vanya actually feels challenged for the first time in his memory. As hard has he hits, his mission hits back with equal force. When he thinks he’s finished his mission, his mission gets up and keeps going. There’s a redhead with him. She looks familiar. There’s something familiar about the way she fights, but he can’t put a finger on it. He can’t dwell for long.

His goggles get knocked aside. No matter. He has his mask. They continue to fight. It lasts for a long time, but Vanya feels no exertion.

He watches his mission, learning how he moves and how he fights. Vanya adapts quickly. There’s something about the way he uses his body, as if he doesn’t trust the weight behind each action. His movements are deliberate and to the point. He rarely feints. He fights like someone who didn’t learn to fight in his body. There’s something off-putting about this mission, but Vanya choses not to care. He continues the fight. Calculated moves. Precise deliberation. This fight allows him to use moves he doesn’t remember even learning. He feels the mask get ripped off his face. He breathes his first breath of fresh air. It’s like a jolt to his system. He turns to finish the mission, but something makes him pause.

“Bucky?” his mission asks.

Vanya is not prepared for this contingency. He doesn’t know any Bucky. “Who the hell is Bucky?” he says, his first words in god only knows how long. His mission looks at him in such a way that Vanya knows…knows something. That man. He meant something to Bucky. He meant a lot to this Bucky. He needs to get out of there. There’s an explosion. That’s his diversion. He turns and runs. He needs to get to the rendezvous point.

He doesn’t know what it is about this mission, but there’s something about the man on the bridge. Something about him that strikes a chord in Vanya. A similar chord to the one struck by the cat he met in the alley. He doesn’t understand. It’s not part of his programming. He needs to go.

He runs.

* * *

_The clouds sit heavily on the facility. James lies in his bed, cradling his limp arm. He’s gaunt, sallow from the lack of sunshine. His eyes are sunken and bright. His ribs and spine protrude from translucent skin. He stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t respond when people bring him food. He doesn’t respond when medics come to check on his arm. He doesn’t respond when people come to clean him up. He doesn’t respond. He only complies._

_“If anything, he’s only becoming worse,” Rumlow observes._

_Pierce purses his lips. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “I’m afraid we have no choice.”_

_“Are you sure we’ve reached the last straw?”_

_“Do not question me,” Pierce commands. This is his facility, his patients, his choice on treatment plans._

_“Yes, Mr. Pierce,” Rumlow says submissively. “How shall we proceed?”_

_“Prepare the surgical theater,” Pierce orders. “We will perform a full lobotomy. We need to wipe him. Let him start fresh.”_

* * *

It’s all blank. It’s all white. It’s a void. His mind is a void. He has his mission parameters. He knows what to do. He’s going to succeed. He’s going to complete his mission.

They meet on the helicarriers. Vanya and his mission. The fighting is rough, dirty, and fairly equal. For ever blow that Vanya gets in, his mission gives one back. He sees the chip his mission has and knows he must get it and destroy it. He needs to succeed.

They fight is long and drawn out, neither getting the upper hand for long. They toss and turn, sending punches and kicks whenever possible. His mission moves like a gymnast. Vanya does as well. They’re an equal match for each other. Their fighting styles compliment each other. They could be deadly if they were fighting on the same team.

But they’re not.

Vanya doesn’t stop trying to get to his mission. It’s a step backwards when his mission succeeds in inserting the chip into the mainframe. It’s a step backwards when the helicarrier starts to crumble around them.

Vanya gets trapped under a steel beam. He does everything he can to escape. His metal arm is not working to full capacity. His right is dislocated. He looks around, surveying the damage. _This is not how I end_ , Vanya thinks. He only tries harder. Suddenly, it budges. He looks to his right and sees his mission helping him. Why? Why would his mission do that? He sees the blood staining the midriff of his uniform. The white stripes slowly turning red with blood to match the others, turning his suit to blue and red.

His mission is saying words to him. Words he doesn’t understand. Words he doesn’t comprehend. Words he doesn’t want to comprehend. It’s all too much. Too much stimulation. Too much talking. He only knows how to do one thing. He does what he’s made to do. He does what he’s good at.

“You’re my mission!” he cries, pummeling the man in the blue and red. He punches over and over. He feels the power he has. He feels the life he holds in his hands. He feels the life’s-blood drip from his mission.

“Then finish it,” his mission says. Vanya raises his hand. He has permission. “’Cause I’m with you, ‘til the end of the line.”

Something makes him pause. That sentence. It gives him a fire in his belly. He doesn’t understand it. The fire surges and tingles throughout his body. He can’t control it. He doesn’t know his mission, but he knows one thing. When the glass floor of the helicarrier shatters and his mission falls to the Potomac, Vanya knows one thing. This man doesn’t deserve to die, not when he’s able to make Vanya – a soulless assassin – feel something. He lets go of the beam and falls to the river below.

* * *

_It’s a strange day. The sun just barely peeks out from the clouds. It’s a rarity. It’s considered a sunny day. There’s no rain, snow, or hail. The winds die down enough that the windows aren’t constantly rattling. The air feels crisp and new. There are even a few flowers to open their petals. The world outside is serene and calm._

_Inside is a completely different story. There’s chaos. Pierce watches as surgeons and anesthesiologists frantically try to save the man on their table. Pierce paces in the observation desk, silently ordering them to succeed. He cannot lose James yet. Not when there is still so much to be accomplished._

_James’ head is propped up and kept in place by a metal rig. All was fine until it was not. Without warning, the monitors begin beeping and screeching. Numbers and statistics are called across the surgical floor. Pierce watches as they throw the blue surgical blankets from James’ chest area and one doctor rushes in and takes a scalpel. He has to look away as James’ chest is cracked and opened._

_“We’re losing him!” a doctor calls, watching the lines on the monitor plummet._

_“Another round of epinephrine!”_

_So quickly Pierce would have missed it had he blinked, a needle is pressed straight into James’ exposed heart. One doctor dives back in, grasping James’ heart in his hand and squeezing rhythmically._

_“Continue cardiac massage!”_

_“Keep going, he’s still fibrillating,” the doctor in charge of watching the monitors calls. He watches as the numbers continue to fall. “We need a crash cart!”_

_A nurse rolls the machine to James’ side. Another doctor grabs the paddles, pressing a few buttons on the main console._

_“Charge to 130! Clear!”_

_The doctor massaging James’ heart pulls his hands away. All other members close enough to James’ body hold their hands hear their heads. A loud whine and small thunk indicate it’s safe to touch James again. The doctor continues the cardiac massage._

_“No change,” the doctor watching the monitors says. “Let’s go again. Charge to 220! Clear!”_

* * *

“Steve?” Bucky says quietly. Steve whirls around. His eyes tell the story that his mouth doesn’t. He’s not expecting to see Bucky.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, dropping his sandwich. “Bucky, is that you?”

“Yeah, Steve. It’s really me. Sorry it took so long to get to you.” Bucky shuffles his feet, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “But I knew I could find you here. It’s where we used to live.”

“Oh, Buck, I’m just glad you’re safe.” Steve pulls him into a hug. Bucky is reluctant to return it, but he feels better when his arms are around his old friend.

After the helicarriers, it took him some time to figure out who he was. He sought out his cat friend and spent many nights petting it. The cat helped him fill the white void that his mind had been. The fog is still there, but every day it lifts a little more.

“I’m glad I’m back,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s face between his hands. “I’m so sorry for everything I put you through, Stevie. I’m so, so, sorry.”

“Bucky,” Steve replies, gently holding Bucky’s wrists. “You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. I’m serious. You’re here now. That’s all that matters. And look, we’re both here. It’s 2014. We’re both alive. We have another chance.”

Bucky smiles. “I know, Stevie. I know.”

“C’mon, I gotta show you some of my favorite things here, but first let’s do something that’s just for the two of us. Follow me.”

Steve takes Bucky’s hand and drags him to the nearest subway station. On the train, Bucky puts a protective arm around Steve. It’s good to be able to have his Stevie back again. It’s good to be able to have someone to protect again. It’s been so long.

“Steve, are we going to Coney Island?” Bucky asks, recognizing the familiar subway route.

“Yeah! It’s changed a little since the last time we were there. I heard they have a new roller coaster that’s even better than the Cyclone.” Steve is beaming and leaning into Bucky’s shoulder. It feels right. It feels like this is where Bucky is supposed to be.

They emerge in the sunlight, kids laughing and running, dogs barking and following, and parents yelling after their children and dogs. They walk hand in hand towards the pier. Steve buys them both tickets and they stand on line. They have to wait for a long time, but it’s worth it. They spend it looking at each other, both in awe that they’re really there. Together. After so much time. After so much had happened. They’re there. Together. Enjoying a sunny day with a  light breeze. It’s their turn to get on the roller coaster.

They get in side by side, their thighs and arms brushing against each other. The safety bar comes down, keeping them in place. Steve smiles at Bucky, a smile that could light up a sunny day. The car starts moving, slowly at first, gaining speed. Steve starts laughing, a laugh that sounds like angels singing.

They reach the peak of the ride and start plummeting downwards. Bucky raises his arms and yells in joy. Steve laughs, and Bucky joins. Together, they’re flying. Together, they’re living. Together, they’re free.

* * *

_“Time of death, 6:16pm.”_

 


End file.
